Contact

Today I am asked, for insurance purposes, to provide an emergency contact. My mind goes blank, my mouth goes dry, and my stomach drops to my knees as I realize there is no one. Colby was my emergency contact. From the time he had a phone, his was the name I always gave.

The voice on the other end of the line prods me along and I try to focus. Certainly, the voice says, there is a niece or nephew, sister, brother, or in-law within driving distance. No, there isn't. Not within or outside of driving distance. For me, those people don't exist, have never existed. I am panicking now. The fluttering begins, my mind whirls and I can't think. All I know is that I have no emergency contact.

I hang up the phone and bite my lips. I hug myself and rock back and forth in a futile effort to keep the tears from falling. It should be Colby's name I list on that form. His phone number. His contact information, and I am hit with such deep sadness that I find it hard to breathe.

After a time my brain begins to clear and I realize I have friends who will serve as my contact, many of them. But I am tired, overwhelmed and the thought of going to the trouble of asking any one of them if it is okay to use their name, their contact information, is too much. That would make it real. That would mean that Colby really is gone. Of course I know that he is, but sometimes reality is hard to fathom, to believe, to understand, remember. And sometimes I want, need, to hold on to that golden illusion that Colby is just around the corner, that he will be jiggling the doorknob and peeking in the living room window any time now. I just have to wait, be patient, and he'll be back soon. Just wait and see.

That's where my mind goes when reality is too hard to accept. It's a daydream, a pleasant fantasy, but it keeps me from being so overwhelmed with the truth of my life. It is a tool that allows me to function. I choose a friend's name and add calling the person to tomorrow's "to do" list, to see if it is okay to put their name and contact information on the form. Then I look at the photo of my son in the silver frame on my coffee table. I kiss my finger, then place my finger on the frame next to the image of Colby's face. I miss my boy.

Privacy

Today I wade through the piles of stuff in Colby's room and pull out one of his computers. He has several, some of which I know do not work. In trying to sort through things I am beginning to test electronics to see what is viable and what is not, what I should keep (for now) and what I can get rid of.

This computer fires right up. It is one I gave him several years ago and he has been storing music files on it. Lots of music files that he produced or composed. I open one file, then another. It seems an invasion of his privacy and it makes me uncomfortable. But it has to be done. Colby was quite talented, but his music was not everyone's cup of tea. It is politically driven with lots of metal. But I have lived in Nashville far too long not to realize it is good. Very good. Some songs I have heard before, over and over as he developed riffs and licks and intros and outros. Day after day, sometimes stretching into weeks, the same song again and again until he got it just right. Other songs I have not heard before. Some are other bands he recorded, many of the songs, both his and other musicians, are partially done.

This entire process of going through his things leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It is likely to be there for a while as I am months away from finishing.  I know I have read writings he never intended for me to read, but it must be read for me to know what it is. Is it important enough to save? Does someone else want it? Should it be thrown? I have discussed this before, but in this case I want to say it feels like spying, snooping.

We all leave stuff behind: papers, music, art, books that indicate who we are, where our interests lie, what is important to us. It is a way for those left behind to piece our lives together. But we also leave behind lots of "stuff" that means nothing. Unless we specifically state, it is up to our survivors to figure out which is which. And, we can't possible get it right all the time. So if you have things that are important to you, please let someone know what they are. I can easily sort many of Colby's things. But if a specific piece of jewelry, a rock, a ticket stub had sentimental value or he just happened to drop it on his dresser, I do not know. I am much more equipped today than I was a few months ago to make these determinations. I have pieced much together. But there is much I will never know. And that makes me very, very sad.

Seven

I am still not up to seeing people. There is still too much holiday left on this Saturday after Thanksgiving. So, today I tackle more "stuff," organizing, sorting, discarding, gifting, things of both mine and Colby's when I run across a huge box. The box is buried beneath other boxes in a part of the basement we call The Bomb Shelter. Thinking it is probably more of Colby's baby clothes I am surprised at its weight. I am even more surprised when I open it to find 7 years of client files and business receipts. Here are the years of our lives from 1989 to 1996. Files going back twenty years. I realize then that I missed my company's 20th anniversary. It would have been August 30th, but I was still reeling from Colby's passing then. Still am now. Normally it wouldn't be such a bad thing, not to remember, but when you own the company and are it's sole employee, well, I felt bad that I didn't remember such a momentous occasion.

I lug the box outside. It is a beautiful, warm day for late November, and I sit in a chair and pull out the first of more than 200 file folders. In these files are statements from banks I had forgotten I banked with; and thick, expensive phone bills. Back in the day we were charged for long-distance calls and publicists, then and now, live on the phone. I remember spending days sorting the phone bill and billing clients for their share. Those were the days when I had an office on Music Row. I'd pick Colby up after school and he'd ride back into town with me. The office featured a huge storage closet that I turned into "Colby's office." There was an old black and white tv (no cable then), refrigerator, crayons, coloring books and toys. It wasn't unusual for some of my famous clients to join Colby in his "office" and watch cartoons after a meeting with me.

I look through more receipts. First American Bank changed from using envelopes with plastic windows to the open window style in the middle of 1992. I see deposit receipts from my days as a stringer for the Nashville Banner, Nashville's former afternoon daily. Who even remembers when cities had afternoon papers? Colby came with me for many of my interviews, town hall meetings and the elections I covered. When Colby got old enough to vote, he did, never missing an election in which he was eligible to voice his opinion. He commented to me many times that he didn't understand why other kids his age didn't use this great opportunity our country gives us to elect our leaders. "If you don't vote, you shouldn't complain," was one of his more frequent sayings. Of course, he then took the opportunity to complain frequently.

I find tickets to a reception for the Country Radio Seminar that I apparently did not go to, and bills for rolls of fax paper. This was before the Internet, cell phones, or plain paper fax machines. I see lists, pages long, of mailings for press releases and remember when Colby was a little older and helped fold releases and stuff envelopes. Those were the days before broadcast fax programs, e-faxes or email. It took days to prepare a press release and even longer for one to arrive at its destined media outlet.

I spend several hours looking through the papers, and sort items that are recyclable from those items that are not. Eventually I bring the empty file folders up to my office, then fill most of a 96 gallon recycling container with the papers. This, then, was seven years of the history of my business, but it was also seven years of memories, Colby's and mine. That's one of the toughest things about Colby passing away. While I miss him deeply, constantly, with every single breath I take, there is no one left for me to say, "Remember when?" There is no one to share those memories with and I wonder what the point of all those good times were if no one is left to remember them but me.

Thoughts

I get through Thanksgiving intact. Somehow. During the day I try to think of happy Thanksgivings Colby and I had in the past. There were many of them that were very happy. I am fortunate that I had 23 Thanksgivings with my son. Other parents are not as lucky. But, ultimately, those happy thoughts are far too painful and I find myself at the trail head of a dark path, so I turn instead to an online support group. It is a huge help.

Here are a few thoughts from other people whose loved ones have passed. These statements resonate with me, and even though most of you have not experienced the loss of a child (although I know a few of you have) maybe you can find value in the words, too. I think most of the statements, if you think deeply enough about them, can apply to any situation of loss or tragedy.
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“Though the singer is silent there still is the truth of the song.” John Denver

I cry because if I don't, I might explode. I cry because I’ll never know if my son knew how very much I love him.

If we hadn't loved so deeply, we wouldn't hurt so much.

You were so fortunate to have embraced an angel for twenty-three years. What a gift!

My love for my son will never die, but it is so very hard to go on living without him. 

My life is defined by “that day,” and just like “that day” I have no control over anything. I am terrified.

I wish people around us could understand, then we wouldn't feel like we had to put on a mask. But I’d never wish that anyone experience the loss of a child. It is far too painful for words. I’ll just wear the mask.

I have survived for a reason, but I don’t care what that reason is.

I have to stay busy. That’s the only thing I know to do to keep from shriveling up inside.

I want to close myself off from everybody. If I am by myself it doesn't hurt as much. I can be myself. I can let loose and cry, rage, storm all I want. I don't have to wear a mask.

Additionally, I learned of a book called The Gift of Hope by Dr. Robert Venings. In it he describes a pattern of five stages that people go through after tragedy. The first, Stage One, is The Bomb Shell stage. In this stage, the person's initial reaction to the tragedy is to become numb, emotionless. The person may not be able to make decisions, because they are overwhelmed. They may have difficulty concentrating, or carrying on a conversation. They might experience anxiety, which can come through as hyperactivity, a stomach ache, shakiness, crying, hugging, rocking. “Thanksgiving” proved to me that grief really is a cycle. I am back to Stage One. The good news is there are just four stages to go.

Masks

As we head into Thanksgiving, masks are a hot topic in my online support group. Other grieving parents specifically talk about the masks we wear in public to make people think we are doing okay, that we are coping, getting on with life, functioning. Then we get home, or company leaves, or we hang up the phone and we take the mask off. That's when we fall apart. Completely, uncontrollably. It doesn't matter if our child passed yesterday or six years ago yesterday. The grief is still overwhelming. We are still crying ourselves to sleep every single night. The loss is still far greater than anyone should ever have to bear.

This removing of the mask happens dozens of times a day. The good news is that we have all progressed far enough in our grief that we are able to hold things together for short periods of time. If we have to. But the toll that takes is so great that the build up of emotion then explodes. So, rather than staying on an even keel of grief that progresses slowly, every grieving parent I have spoken with rides this huge roller coaster of emotion. How I wish all of us could stop this thing and get off.

But we can't. I get emails every day from people all around the world who read this blog. If you have a friend or family member who has suffered an exceptional loss at any time, during this holiday season:

1. Please mention the loved one's name frequently.
2. Spend time talking with the person about their loved one.
3. It's okay if they cry. In fact, it is healing if they do.
4. Offer your support, but do not be offended if they do not accept it. That you offered is enough.
5. Do not judge their method of grieving. Everyone does it differently.
6. Recognize that past loss can be as raw as new loss, especially during the holidays.
7. Do not force people to "get out." Sometimes it is better to stay home.
8. The best gift is the gift of remembrance. Remembering the loved one is the best gift you can give to someone who is grieving.

Plants

When Colby was one year old, he became the proud owner of a potted plant. He and my mom and I were having lunch at the old Woolworth’s store in 100 Oaks Mall in Nashville when, on the way out, he toddled over to a display of plants near the door. Colby inspected each carefully, then plopped himself down next to one of them and hugged it. “My Nini,” he said.

Of course, we had to buy Nini Plant for him. What “Nini” meant, I never knew, but he and that plant were bonded from that day on. When we got Nini home, Colby sat on the floor and talked to it. Not just that day, but regularly for years. There is a school of thought that plants that are spoken to every day thrive. That certainly was the case with Nini. Nini grew quite large, so we put her outside in the summer, in a shady spot on the porch. When the nights grew cool, Nini always had a sunny place inside the house.

It was Colby’s job to care for Nini and he did quite well with this until his illness and addiction forced him onto the streets. When he’d call, or when I saw him, he’d always ask if I was taking care of Nini for him. On the infrequent times he came home in the past year, Colby always had time to wipe spots off Nini’s leaves and to have a quiet conversation.

Nini has now been part of our family for 23 years. Never in a million years did I think Nini would outlive Colby. I still have a hard time finding my way around that cold, hard fact. Since Colby passed, Nini has become my responsibility. I found that Nini does not tolerate fertilizer well. I almost killer her with kindness shortly after Colby passed. I could not have withstood that, losing Colby, and then, through my own stupidity, his favorite plant. But Nini recovered and is once again doing well.

I cannot speak to Nini in the same way that Colby did, but I try. Recently I noticed that our cat, Bailey, has taken an unusual interest in Nini. Bailey, who has always ignored Nini, now frequently sits next to her, or rubs her cheek against one of Nini’s large, glossy leaves. Yesterday I heard Bailey talking to Nini as she lay comfortably next to her. “Mrrow . . . Yow.” She’s done it several times today, this from a normally very quiet cat. I am glad the two are bonding. It seems strange to think that a plant might miss Colby, but maybe she does. It seems stranger yet that a cat would recognize that need and fill it. But that’s exactly what I think has happened. Bailey and Nini. Strange and stranger. Colby would be so very, very pleased.

Insensitivity

So far today I have six emails that wish my family and me a Happy Thanksgiving. These are from people who know Colby has passed away. These are from people who know that I have no family to spend Thanksgiving with. It is still three days until the actual holiday. I wonder how many more people will be so insensitive?

I am sure that there are still a few "happy" Thanksgivings in my future. 2009 will not be one of them. It is too soon; my emotions are too raw. My grief is too strong. Yes, I have things to be thankful for. Many things, and I give thanks every day. But being thankful and being happy are not the same thing. Not by a long shot.

I understand the people who have emailed me are trying to be kind. But it is good to remember that those of us who have experienced recent tragedy, who have had recent loss, who do not have family to spend holidays with, will not celebrate the day in the traditional way. We no longer have the option of joining hands with our relatives around a table laden with food. We experience Thanksgiving differently. I have asked others who are grieving, who have no family left, how they spend their holidays. Some hole up with a book, some stay under the covers in bed. Others go for a walk, watch movies, work, clean house––whatever it takes to endure the day, to get through it, to be thankful it is over. Some, those whose grief is not so new, fresh, raw, join with other "only" people, those who have no family, and celebrate the day. Someday that will be me. I look forward to that.

Colby's passing is a good reminder that some people celebrate holidays in non-traditional ways, not because they want to, but because, for them, there is no other choice. 

Looks

Since Colby has passed, I get "the look."You know the one. It's the look you see where another person knows something awful about you but doesn't know what to say, how to approach, what to do. So I have decided to help you out. Like every grieving parent I know, I want to talk about my child. Yes, it makes me sad. I often tear up. I am still on an emotional roller coaster.

I do understand that while it helps me to talk about Colby, it makes you uncomfortable. But please know that it makes me uncomfortable for you to look at me out of the side of your eyes, to avoid my gaze, to go out of your way not to cross my path. So let's not both be uncomfortable. Please ask how I am doing. Please give me your condolences. Offer your help, say you are sorry. Let's lay it all out on the table and get it out in the open. My only child has passed away. I am flustered, unfocused, unproductive. I am not the same person I was. I will never again be that person, but there is enough of me left that I am still your friend, co-worker, acquaintance. I am still me, even though I do not know who that is, will be.

I admit I am guilty of the same behavior. When the loved one of a friend or acquaintance has passed I, too, do not know what to say. I am afraid anything I will say or do will make the situation worse. But I now know that nothing could be worse. Anything you say or do will be of help. Anything but avoiding me. Anything but the look. I may not answer your call, return your call, answer the door, acknowledge email, accept invitations. But I get them. I listen. I read. I do what I can and I hope that someday I will be able to do all of those things. I hope that someday I will realize that "the look" is far in my past.

Balance

I stayed up a few nights ago to watch the meteor showers. I thought how much Colby would have liked to see them. Even as a young child he was interested in science and astronomy. Unfortunately, in Nashville, it was cloudy and rainy and I could not see anything from my front porch. I thought then how disappointed Colby would have been to miss them before I realized he probably had a front row seat.

My counselor friend has asked me to try to balance loss and gain. When I think of a loss, I am to focus on the positive, a gain. Not that there is anything positive about losing a child. There is absolutely no gain. None. Nada, Zip. Nil. I understand that, but the balance must be there if I am to put one foot in front of the other, if I am to keep going. So I think of things like Colby sitting right there up in the sky, leaning on a cloud, a bag of popcorn in his hand as he waits for the meteor showers to begin. Implausable to be sure, but the image helps. It keeps me from focusing so totally on the loss, from drowning in the deficit of my life.

I think it is good advice for other situations as well. A flat tire is an opportunity to practice changing it. A missed meeting is a chance to improve your time management. For many, it is hard to think that way. I used to do it easily. Lately, not so much. But, there is no change without intent. There is no possibility of crawling out of this dark hole without the intent to do so. So I think of gains, however insignificant or impossible they may be. One day that may change. The gains may be real, but the loss will always, forever, be there.

Repetition

I say the "D" word today. In conversation this morning when someone asks about my family I say my son is dead. The word shocks me into silence. I have never used it before. I have always said Colby has passed on or passed away. I am not sure why I say it because I do not believe Colby is dead, at least not in the spiritual sense. I do understand Colby is no longer here with us physically, but I also believe his spirit is still alive. So in that sense I believe it is wrong to use the "D" word. So why did I use the word dead?

Saying Colby is dead opens a floodgate in my brain. All I can think about for the rest of the day is; "My son is dead." "My son is dead.""My son is really dead." I am out of town, at a conference. I smile and greet people from behind the safety of my booth. The physical barrier of the table in front of me keeps me from panicking. I do not feel crowded. To the people who stop at my booth I make pleasant conversation, but my brain is stuck on the four word phrase;  "My son is dead." "My son is dead." My son is dead." "My son is dead."

I don't know if this is a good or a bad thing. I do not know if this is a breakthrough or a setback. Do I feel, cleansed, renewed, sadness, relief? I do not know. I am back in the numb phase. I have also lost my phone. I should feel disconnected. But I don't. I don't feel anything. That's probably good. I hope my brain shuts down tonight. I am tired. That I do feel. I also hope I find my phone. But if not, I don't really care. Not tonight, for I am still trying to process that my son, my precious baby boy, is really and truly gone.

Lists

I wrote a while ago about the new normal grieving parents must live on a daily basis. This new normal is what our day-to-day life is like after the passing of our child. Children. Some parents have lost several. I can’t imagine. I have a friend in the mental health industry who says it is important to see in black and white what normal now is. That way we can embrace it. Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t. From what I can tell, my new normal is similar to that of other grieving parents. All of our children would be so sad to realize how much we miss them, how much their passing has affected us, how tough we now find life. This, when they are at peace, happy. But, this is it. This is our new reality. Since Colby passed, I:

can’t remember anything
don’t sleep, am endlessly tired
do not take anything for granted
am on an emotional roller coaster
take forever to get things done
wander aimlessly
am no longer afraid to die
want, need, to be alone
am endlessly grateful for small favors
cry easily and regularly
have an incessant need for facts and plans
become angry at thoughtless comments
can’t tolerate crowds
realize that life does go on, even though at times I don’t want it to
understand all too well that life is very short
wonder how many tears my body can produce, how much pain I can endure
desperately wish I could have my life back, rather than this nightmare I now live

Normally I am a glass half full person. Lately that has been hard. The list, though is helpful. My friend is right. I do see the reality, but I also see a path through a small piece of it. I see I need to take better care of myself, write things down so I don’t forget, stay away from large groups, do things now rather than put things off, appreciate everyone. That alone is a lot for me to remember, to attempt. But I will try. I have to. You can see the alternative. It is right here in black and white.

Decisions

I can't make decisions. What to wear, what to eat, what bills to pay. It's beyond me. So many choices is overwhelming. Then I feel bad because these are simple, everyday tasks that I should be able to do, have always been able to do. Easily. But I can't. I just can't.

I find myself putting off the most minor of decisions, then, because I wait too long I am forced into a choice. Lately I have been choosing poorly. I eat things I shouldn't because I can't figure out what to buy in the store, so I buy nothing. Then, out of hunger, I find the nearest, quickest, easiest place for food and it is inevitably junk. I wear clothes that have not been washed because I can't decide if there are enough light colored clothes to bother with separating them from the dark ones. Putting off decisions makes my life easy in the short term, but causes big problems long term. I must find a way to break these decisions down, to give myself a time limit, to once and for all go one way or the other. Decisions.

Part of the problem is that I so badly want to do the right thing. I have some big decisions looming. I do not have to make them today, or tomorrow or even next month, but they do have to be made. What would Colby do? I have an obsessive need to know his thoughts, his ideas. I need quiet time to think but if I don't stay busy, if I allow myself one inch of breathing space, then I begin to cry. I lose focus. I begin to panic.  The trick is to put each decision off as long as possible before it is too late for that decision. Each day, each hour, each minute, brings me closer to being in a frame of mind where I can make good, educated decisions. And that, my friends, is my decision for the day.

Writing

My counselor and support group both have me doing free writing exercises this week. Apparently it is a good way to see where I am, and hopefully open up new areas for discussion. It is supposed to work for whatever problem you have or decision you need to make. This topic is Fun with Colby. I start slowly. In fact, I don't start at all for about 20 minutes. My mind is swirling with a blur of thoughts, none of which I can single out. But eventually the thoughts begin to sort themselves and this is what comes up:

Michigan Rummy, diving off the dock, snow angels, Sundance, wading in the creek by the house, Snoqualmie and Dexter and Bootsie and Fred and Katie (horse, dog, cat, cat, and dog respectively), the Wizard of Oz car, Opryland, pizza, Goodnight Moon, the potty tree (my fun memory, not Colby's), the Minnesota and Cumberland science museums, Barry, the Delano parade, Canterbury, polka, dandelions, Frank and Jesse James, Old Axehandle.

I purposely stop after a minute or so. I don't want the list to get so long I cannot make sense of it. I know these words and phrases mean nothing to anyone other than myself. They would have meant something to Colby, though, and that is one of the biggest losses I deal with. There is no one to share memories with anymore. That is a topic that is still too painful to think about so I look at the words from a different angle. What I see now is that not all, but the majority of the places and events associated with the words, take place in Minnesota. That is something I had not realized before. I'm not sure what it means and know I will think about it, try to decipher the bigger picture that this narrow doorway of words opens into. What is also interesting is that there are no people on the list. My mother is associated with many of the events, but no one else, other than our four-legged friends, is involved at all. Another interesting phenomenon.

I need time to think, to reflect. Understanding is one of the keys to healing, understanding myself, Colby, experiences, those around us. Everyone's reality is a little bit different, but the more complete picture I can get the easier this process will be. I am impatient. I know this will never be over. Not really. Parents never recover from the loss of a child, but I am ready for the pain to soften, for the days to get just a little bit easier. I am 16 weeks into a several year journey. I have a long way to go.

Two

Today I go to a visitation for one of Colby's friends who passed away earlier this week. This is the second friend who has passed since Colby. It's just been a few months. Two is two too many. Death is always hard for those of us who are left behind, but it is especially hard when the person is young. Why can't we all live out long and natural lives? Learn about being old? Pass our wisdom to the generations who come behind us?

I hope to stay for a time, to visit, but it is all I can do to pay my condolences to the young man's mother. We talk of the numbness, of the dream-like quality of burying your child. She already has a support group lined up. I am glad to hear that. So many parents do not. So many try to get through this by themselves. I do not think that is possible. Not for me, anyway. I leave not too long after I arrive. This scenario is too raw, too fresh. I feel a panic attack building so I quickly walk out the door. Then I sit in my truck and cry. It is 16 weeks today since Colby passed. 112 days. I pray he is at peace, that he is happy. I know in my heart that he is, but I'd gladly give my own life to have one more hug, see one more smile. Then I get mad at myself because my wants feel selfish.

I hope Colby was there to welcome his friend. There are now four young men who look down upon loved ones. One went about a year before Colby. All went differently, for different reasons. All left grieving parents whose hearts will never, ever, be the same.

Roles

We all have roles to play: husband, wife, student, daughter, friend, uncle, niece, mom. As we grow and progress through life we add and delete roles, and the perspective of each remaining role in our life changes. Usually, we have some say in the roles and may choose to embrace ourselves as employee, student or neighbor. Our roles may also define what we do: hiker, skater, singer, gardner, bicyclist, swimmer, reader, assistant.

For almost 24 years I was Colby's mom. Longer if you consider the nine months before he was born. It's not a role I can give up, ever. I will always be Colby's mom, but the definition of that must now change. Like all the other grieving parents I have met since Colby passed, I do not have a choice regarding the fact that the role must change, but I do have a choice about the direction of it. However, there is so much involved in this that I do not know where to start. One counselor suggests that, again, I am expecting too much of myself too soon. Colby would tell me to chill, and say that it will all happen in good time. I know that is true, but in the meantime I have lost my identity. I don't know who I am anymore.

Herd

I have lost my herd. In the world of horses, the herd is everything. The herd represents safety, security, support, comfort, shelter, food, sharing, leadership, decision-making, teamwork––everything a horse needs to thrive. Colby was my herd.

When I was sick, he was the first to notice. When I'd lock myself out of the house, he was the one who could crawl into our secret entrance. When I needed to move something heavy, he was always there. And not just recently. It's amazing how much an eight- or ten-year-old boy can help, be a team member.

When you come from a small family, a small herd, each member relies on others more than in larger units. Each member does double duty, completes more jobs. Imagine your immediate and extended family. Now imagine all of them gone. When you are a herd of one, you realize that being part of a herd is not one sided. Herd members help each other, seamlessly, in thousands of ways.

In the wild, lone horses, herds of one, do not last long. There is no one to watch over them while they rest. There is no one to share the leadership and decision-making, no one help fend off predators, provide shelter from storms. With Colby's passing, I have lost my herd. I am, essentially, a lone horse picking my way up a rocky trail. My job now is to figure out what to do about it.

Smile

Today I stop at a BP station for gas. I get out of the truck, insert my card and am hit with such a strong memory I momentarily forget to pump my gas. When Colby was two, BP had a slogan, "BP on the Move." The commercials played over and over, enough so that everyone who turned on a television was aware of them. One day we passed a BP here in Nashville and Colby got all excited and about jumped out of his car seat. "Look! Look," he cried just as we drove by. "It's BP and it's on the move!" I catch myself with the beginnings of a smile as I remember trying to explain physics to a two year old, that it is we who were moving, and not the BP station.

This moment, this memory, is the first time I've not had the shaky, unfocused feeling in many days. I've been overloaded, busy, tired, and have misplaced important things, things that have cost me time and money, and a great deal of stress. I've also been missing Colby terribly. He always knew the right thing to say, to do, to help. Not having him here during this time has made it a thousand times worse.

I remember Colby being unfocused and upset and telling him to take a step back, to stop doing, to think, assess, plan. So that's what I did and a few hours later I find myself smiling. Almost.

Challenges

Today I get through the day with a little help from my friends. Some days are like that. Impossible to deal with on my own. Today held many meltdowns. Many challenges. But each time someone stepped in to help in one way or another. Thank you. You know who you are.

We often forget that the littlest thing can mean the world to someone else. A smile, a prayer, a helping hand. Colby understood that. So do many of his friends. But at times we all forget. When we are having a good day we sometimes forget that an encouraging word can mean the world to someone who is having a bad day.

When Colby was younger we sometimes had a contest: how many nice things could we do for the other in a minute or less. Colby always won. I'm not sure when we got out of the habit of doing that. Life happens, and we forget.

I've had a lot of bad days lately, but I have found the best way to get through it is to help someone else through their day. That is not always possible. Some days, like today, are beyond that. But I won't forget. For reaching out, helping others, is the best way for me to help myself.

Finder

Colby was the finder in our family. If anything was lost, he would come in, send a sweeping glance across the room and spot the missing item in an instant. Either that or he knew my mother and me so well that he'd instinctively know where we put things. The finding didn't extend to his own items, just ours, but it was a talent he developed early and he became our official "finder" well before he entered kindergarten.

I can't possibly recall the number of times he found my glasses, my cell phone, my keys. When I get tired I tend to put things in strange places: the cell phone in the freezer, my glasses in the laundry basket. Since Colby's passing I have been very careful not to get over tired, or at least be aware of my low energy level. Last night when I got home after several days on the road, I was apparently more tired than I realized. I opened the front door with my keys and they have not been seen since. I have spent more than 24-hours looking for them and know now that it will take more than just my eyes to find them, if they are even here. It is possible I placed them on the bumper of a truck and when it drove off, it took my keys with it. I just don't know.

I hate this tired, scattered feeling. I hate not being organized, efficient. I let a lot of people down today because I could not keep commitments I made to them last week and now I will let others down tomorrow. If I can't find my keys it will be at least a day's job to go through the logistics and expense of replacing them. It seems like no matter how hard I try, I just slip further and further behind. I hope that a good night's sleep puts it all in perspective. I hope that I miraculously develop some of Colby's finding ability. I hope tomorrow is a much easier day.

Colors

Early in my counseling I am asked the color of my grief. I immediately say both yellow and purple. These are the colors that first came to mind, but not bright yellow or a bright purple, more a deep yellow-gold and a dark purple, what some would call a dark shade of eggplant. I realize these are unusual colors so I think about it for a week, only to confirm my initial reaction.

Lately, I give the colors more thought. I conclude the dark purple comes from the Easter services and my Catholic upbringing. Death and rebirth. Lots of symbolism there. I haven't had time to figure it all out yet. The yellow gold to me represents heaven, angels, royalty, spirituality.

Last week I am again asked the question. "What color is your grief?" The first thing that comes to mind this time is black. Deep, solid, unpenetrable black; a dark abyss; a black hole of loneliness, sadness, despair. After a week, my answer remains the same. Now, I ponder the difference between the first set of colors and the last. It is easy for me to see that the first set represents Colby. The second represents me.

My grief is a black hole, a huge black hole, but around the edges there are other colors. Thin uneven lines, partial lines and strips of colors. The colors swirl, move, appear and disappear, mix and separate; and are constantly in motion, forming and reforming. It is windy at the edge, but I am a short distance away. I do not feel in danger of falling, or being blown, into the dark vortex. But, I am fascinated by the swirling colors and peer intently at them trying to discern shapes, paths, clues, direction, guidance. So far I am unsuccessful in this. But I feel the answer is there, developing, ready to burst forth at some as of yet undetermined moment.

This is not a dream or a vision, but more of a feeling, a knowing. I wish Colby were here to talk with about this. He would have some fabulous perspective, thought, idea I have not considered, and without him, will probably never consider. Today is a day I feel his absence deeply. But when I think of my colors, they indicate Colby is in a better place and is not in pain. That thought helps as I watch my swirling mass of colors, and wait.

Poem

These are not my words, but they express what I often cannot.

"May I Be Excused"
by Trevor Romain

Dear God,
May I be excused just for the day
from the lessons of life in this huge classroom
where we live and learn?

I am finding the lessons of this earth too hard to learn.

Just for the day, can I stop to rest in a quiet place
and lay down my head.

As you know, I have lost my son,
and the role is too hard for me to play on this day,
the words spoken are false
my face is a mask, and my smiles are fake.
The only truth I see is love, and that I find hard to see today

So please, God
may I have this day
just for me
no worries
no lessons
no pain
just my inner peace that's been missing for some time.

Please God may I be excused.
Just for the day?

Unraveling

Several people tell me they think I am unraveling, going backwards, falling apart. They read my blog posts, see me in person, talk to me and yes, I agree, I am not the same person I was before Colby's passing. Losing a child is a life-changing experience and one cannot go back to the place they were before. Cannot.

I both agree and disagree with the unraveling analogy. There are actually two meanings for the word. The first is the most common meaning and it is to undo, such as to undo or unravel knitted fabric, tangled fishing line, or in this instance, a personality or mental state. I disagree with this definition not only where it applies to me, to my personality, to my mental state, but to all of us who knew and loved Colby. We are all struggling in our different ways, but I do not believe any of us are unraveling in this way.

Many of us do apply, however, to the second meaning, and that is to separate, clarify and solve. Many who knew and loved him have mixed feelings about Colby and his passing. We have questions. Now that the initial physical, mind-numbing shock is wearing off we are moving into another phase of grief, of healing. I try to separate my emotions, my feelings, so that I can experience and deal with each one. I try to clarify what each of the emotions and feelings mean and I try to clarify Colby's life and actions. And, there are many questions that need answers. We may never know the things about Colby, about ourselves, that we need to know, but I understand that I and several others are trying to find answers, to solve the questions Colby's life and loss bring to us all. In this way, yes, I am unraveling. Big time.

This new phase makes me feel more unstable, shakier, sadder. But with each passing day of separating, clarifying and solving, I move closer to the answers I need about Colby, his thoughts, ideas, perspectives, situations, relationships and actions. I also move closer to those things as they pertain to me, and I feel that this unraveling process may continue for some time. I have met with parents who have experienced the loss of a child, who are still "unraveling" a decade or more later. We many never finish the process, but we will gain much from it.

So, to those of you who have called, written, emailed or hugged me. Thank you. Your care and concern is such a blessing and helps so much to keep me going. Grief is a process and I realize I have only just begun.

Worry

Since Colby passed I worry about others a lot more than I used to. My mom has dropped a few pounds in recent weeks and I worry, incessantly, that she is not eating enough. I worry that friends do not get enough sleep, that they work too hard. I worry when people I know travel and am afraid they will not arrive safely. I worry about my dog being happy, that my cat is not getting enough exercise.

For years I worried about Colby. When he was a baby I stayed up night after night making sure he was still breathing. In fact, I don't think I've gotten a full night's sleep since he was born. Sleep has been replaced with worry. Did I get everything done that I needed to do? Did I leave anyone hanging with information I promised, yet never delivered? Is the space heater still far enough away from the wall? It that the neighbor shouting? Is everything okay over there?

I worry about others, yet I never worry about myself. I do not know if this is because I subconsciously know there is nothing to worry about, or that I don't care. I have a counselor friend who finds this a little strange. All I know is that when it comes to me, the worst that can possibly happen already has.